


From O to V and Back Again

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-23
Updated: 2005-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short little ficcy inspired by a book called <i>The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again</i>.  If you haven't read it, it's just marvellous and highly recommended.  And if you had, well then you'll probably enjoy this even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From O to V and Back Again

      "What are you reading?" Orli just asks, doesn't bother to knock, because it's Orli, and he doesn't knock. He lets himself into Viggo's living room and Viggo lets the tinniest ghost of a smile grace his lips, eyes still focused on the book in his hands.

      "_The Philosophy of Andy Warhol_," he replies, and that half-smile is still there, just a ghost, just a phantom-smile, and Orli wants to lick the smile, to taste the smile, but the thought doesn't faze him.

      "Like the prints of Marilyn Monroe? The rainbow-coloured ones?" he asks, absently, running his finger through a trail of dust on an end table, a table that Viggo neither uses nor needs but the houses in New Zealand are furnished and so it is there, out of place, collecting dust on polished teak and so unlike Orli's own place, where every table is covered in _stuff_, something, just to avoid the stigma of empty space.

      "One and the same."

      "So what's it about then, rainbow prints?"

      "No. It's his philosophy, like the title says."

      "Well what is his philosophy, then?"

      "Everything. Well everything, and nothing. It's beautiful." Orli is used to Viggo's crypticspeak, his cryptic artist's speak, because Viggo is poetic and beautiful and so he doesn't care.

      "Tell me more," he requests, just to keep Viggo talking, the gentle roll of syllables from his throat and past his Adam's apple, over that gentle slope that Orli would just love to brush his pinkie finger over. Orli loves to hear Viggo speak, his words uttered so much more slowly and precisely than Orli's own, and so he ambles aimlessly around the room, as he does, because he is Orli, and encourages him.

      "It's about his…companions. Well it's more than that, but it's wrapped up in that. He has companions, his special friends. They talk on the phone, and they go out together. His Bs."

      "Like the letter, B?" Orli clarifies, at the window now, his fingers idly stroking the dark damask of the heavy curtains. Heavy, so heavy, like the weight of Viggo's body might be over his if he could ever get up enough goddamned courage to…

      "Yes, like the letter. He's A, and they're his Bs."

      "Could l be your B, Viggo?" Orli doesn't look, doesn't dare to look at him. He fingers the weight of the curtain and stares out past the pane of glass, out into the gathering dark of early evening. He is more serious than they think, than any of them think, and he can bleed just as painfully as the whole muck of them. Orli can hurt. Viggo is the only one who understands this.

      "Orlando." He speaks the three syllables, and they are heavy, heavy like the curtain and Orli doesn't dare to turn around, not yet.

      "I want to be your B," he repeats.

      "What do you mean, Orlando?" Orli hates the way Viggo uses his full first name, but then loves it, also, for it could be condescending but it isn't, from Viggo's lips it is like honey and he wants to hear it whispered, throatily, painfully, when Viggo can't help it. He wants to force that name from Viggo's lips, but he won't tell Viggo this.

      "I want to be central to you," Orli tries to explain, and his accent is clipped and awkward and the words aren't exactly what he wants to say. He feels impossibly young, and he is painfully aware of the space between himself and Viggo, almost the entire width of the room and every centimetre of it hurts.

      "You are."

      "No, Viggo. I don't think anyone's _that_, to you. You don't have any Bs. Maybe Excene was a B…"

      "Why do you think that?" Orli heard, but did not see, the soft crinkling of pages as the book was sat down on the coffee table, corner of a page folded over in the methodical way that Viggo used to mark his place. Viggo did not rise from his seat on the couch, but leaned back, listening, and Orli listened to the squelch of the cushions under Viggo's weight and clenched his fists around the curtains in resolve.

      "You're not… I mean you don't let… I want to break you down, Viggo." He hadn't meant it so harshly, but that's how it came out, and still without the courage to face him, Orli knew Viggo would understand. "I want to… I want to feel out the crevices, shine a candle in the dark places, and… I want to know you, Viggo. Know you, intimately." He felt like a blubbering idiot, and why was he admitting this now, of all times? The silence hung heavy and long around them, like a shroud, but then Viggo's voice broke the pause, not crisp and direct but heavy as the silence, as the curtains. Heavy, and thick, and not a voice that Orli could remember hearing from his cast mate in the past.

      "Come here, Orlando." His breath hitched, he contemplated making a run for the kitchen and escaping out the backdoor, but he couldn't. Viggo was like a magnet, and he was one of those little shards, iron filaments that you played with in elementary school science class, and _whoosh_, he was sucked across the room like a filament and standing, vulnerable, over Viggo but not really over him, not commanding at all, just staring with dark eyes and throbbing pulse points. "Touch me," Viggo commanded, and Orli continued to stare, not sure what to do. Touch where? With what? How? Light, rough, gentle or forceful? He didn't move, and Viggo growled, impatient for the first time Orli had seen in a long while. Viggo was never impatient. Orli made Viggo impatient. He would grin if he weren't so frightened, and instead he gasped as Viggo's fingers took hold of his shirt and tugged him down. He was straddling Viggo's lap, and he thought absently that his brain was starting to hurt.

      "Why?" he whispered, unable to come up with a more coherent sentence than that, as Viggo returned his stare, frighteningly open and willing and… blue.

      "Because no one else ever asked," Viggo stated simply, his fingers reaching up and threading through curls that weren't there, massaging air as his palms raked across the close cropped strands. Orli wished, for a second, that he hadn't cut it, if only for the simple reason that he wanted Viggo to have something to hold onto, to tug and pull and dominate. He gasped again, helpless, as Viggo's lips claimed his own, possessively, fingers dug into his hips and curled around his belt loops and oh God, it wasn't a dream, and Viggo actively wanted him and was probing his lips with a very insistent tongue, and Orli wasn't a slut but in this moment he was just _offering_, offering himself up without shame because it was Viggo and he would be catty and coy and unavailable for everyone else, but for Viggo he just laid himself bare. He wanted to. He wanted to let Viggo read every little bit of himself, for he wanted to do the same for Viggo.

      "I'm not…" he whispered against Viggo's hungry lips, and goddamnit he was not going to cry right now, because that wouldn't be at all called for. But somehow, brushing his jaw with calloused fingertips, Viggo seemed to understand. "…I'm not…please, Viggo, don't think…"

      "Whatever it is, Orli, I don't think," he replied, reassuringly, but Orli wasn't positive.

      "They… they all think I'm… I'm not … please, Viggo. Please."

      "What do you need, Orli? Tell me what you need." Orli took in a gasp of air, and why were all his demons coming up now, of all times? But he swallowed and looked Viggo in the eye and held his head in both hands and met his stare unflinchingly, brown against blue, dark against eerily light.

      "See me," he begged, and though he wasn't making a lot of sense, Viggo understood. Of course Viggo would understand, for Viggo was a poet and Viggo saw beauty in everything and Viggo could see beauty even in Orlando, in whom everyone else saw beauty but not in the right places and Orlando wasn't a cheap whore, he wasn't a pretty boy, he wasn't, he wasn't. "I'm not," he whispered, vulnerably, and Viggo slid his hands up between Orlando's arms and took Orlando's face in his in a perfect mirror image.

      "I see you," Viggo whispered, roughly, humbly. It was so _real_. That was Viggo. He was real to a fault, except that Viggo had very few faults that Orli could identify. "Let me see you," he begged, and Orlando's reply was just a sigh, a rush of air as Viggo's lips met the hollow of his throat.

      "Yes," he breathed, and his hands slid up over the close-cropped hair on Viggo's head and he trembled and sighed and gave himself up.

      "You're mine, B," Viggo whispered, and Orli, for the first time in awhile, let himself smile. That was, after all, all he really wanted.


End file.
